Book Two: Avaritia
by Fan O' Fanfic
Summary: Second in the Purgatorio series. There are voices in the walls, and stalkers in the hallways. At least not everything is dire; plans are made, minds are broken and things are finally getting interesting.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach, Harry Potter or any of their affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

_Base/s:_ Bleach, Harry Potter

_Title:_ Book Two: Avaritia

_Summary: _Second in the _Purgatorio _series. There are voices in the walls, and stalkers in the hallways. At least not everything is dire; things are getting _interesting_.

_Music used for inspiration:_ I Am a Scientist – Dandy Worhols, Night of the Wolf – Nox Arcana, Black Blade, Corruption, He who Brings the Night, A Hole in the Sun, Master of Shadows, Sidanya, You Will Count Your Dead – Two Steps From Hell.

* * *

Szayel finds, much to his surprise, that he is enjoying his summer holidays like he never has before.

He realizes after some thought, that while his relatives treat him with the same nervous cordiality they have always done, he is enjoying things more. He thinks it has something to do with _purpose. _Before, he had been lost, stuck in a body that was less than his own and thrust into a world so very different from the one he knew. But now, oh yes, _now_ he has a _purpose. _ Something to focus on. Magic. He loves it. The very idea sends pleasant tingles down his spine and almost causes him to break out into peals of laughter. The reason he loves it so much, he knows for certain, is that he knows nothing about it. It's _new. _It's a whole world (in this case, literally) of knowledge that is just ready for the taking.

He sighs happily as he sits in the sun, outside on the lawn. The book in his hand a book on magic, but he has swapped the sleeve for one on the Swarzchild Phenomenon he finished a few years ago. He is not so foolish as to advertise the existence of such a fascinating petri dish.

He finds, to his mild surprise, that he is taking pleasure in being outside. From what he can remember of both his former lives, he distained to let the sun's rays touch him, preferring to seclude himself away indoors and continue with whatever knowledge furthering pursuit he was engaged in.

But not today. The sun is shining, the air tastes sweetly of heat and cut grass, and he is feeling rather comfortable.

The only fly in an otherwise pleasant jar of ointment is that Michael, who promised to write to him, has done no such thing. He does not mind much, but is slightly annoyed at being brushed off. Perhaps Lady Corner does not like the idea of her son associating with the boy-who-lived? It is certainly a possibility. He clears his thoughts, it doesn't matter. Not really.

He idly turns a page and pushes his glasses up from where they have slid down his nose.

His eyes skim across the words and his mind, ever sharp, stores them away.

Minutes slide by like the pages of a book left open.

He feels a slight displacement in the air and he jerks his head up. Almost instantaneously, he hears a loud crack and knows something is wrong. Or rather, different. The book falls from his fingers as he narrows his eyes and tenses his body. He scans the garden. His eyes catch something in the bushes.

He blinks.

The bushes, as impossible as it may seem, appear to be staring back at him.

"I would come out if I were you." He says knowingly and takes slight pleasure in the way the eyes widen.

The _thing_ that appears before him gives him a welcome tingle that travels down his spine. He has no idea what it is. But he wants to find out.

It stares at him with wide, pale eyes what seemed too big for its face, and its large bat like ears flutter in the breeze.

Szayel wonders if it ever blinks. He thinks it is rather like Ulquiorra in that regard, and enjoys the fact the Cuatro is not there to reprimand him.

Dobby stares at the boy in front of him. It is odd, he decides, that the great Harry Potter is so calm. It is even odder, he thinks with some measure of awe, that the great Harry Potter had spotted him.

He finds the boy to be how he expected him to be, at least in looks. But there is something in the way his insipid eyes seemed rather... _hungry, _when he looks at the lowly House Elf in front of him that makes Dobby feel his stomach flutter unpleasantly.

The feeling goes away when he reminds himself that this is the great Harry Potter, and Dobby is actually talking to him.

"Harry Potter!" he says happily and sees the boy raise one eyebrow. Dobby wonders if he can do that one day.

The boy's smile does not dim. He feels elated, the great Harry Potter is smiling at him! He is happy to see such a lowly being!

"Hello," he says, "I must admit, you almost took me by surprise."

Dobby beams.

"So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir... Such an honour it is..." he trails off, not really knowing what to say next. Instead, he waits for the young wizard to respond to him.

The boy does not disappoint.

"An honour you say?" he says, apparently slightly amused. Dobby nods his head fast enough to make his ears hurt and the boy chuckles. Oddly enough, the sound that meets his ears is far from humorous. "It's been a long time since I've had _that_ said to me."

Dobby wonders what he means. He doesn't say anything, it is not his place.

"If I may ask though, what exactly are you?"

Dobby is slightly surprised. The great Harry Potter doesn't know?

"Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf." He says promptly, with some pride.

The smile widens.

"Fascinating."

Dobby feels as though he has never been happier.

"I feel I must ask, on behalf of my curiosity, what is one such as you doing visiting one such as I?" the boy asks, and he cocks his head to one side slightly, as if trying to work out a puzzle.

"Oh yes sir," Dobby says, nodding his head vigorously. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir... it is difficult, sir... Dobby wonders where to begin..." he trails off, feeling embarrassed about presenting such a pitiful image to the great Harry Potter. He reflects that he should have probably rehearsed beforehand.

"Oh?" the boy prompts him to go on, interested. Dobby collects himself.

"Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts." Dobby says, serious.

The boy raises an eyebrow again and Dobby _really_ wishes he could do that too.

"Now that," the boy starts, "I did not expect you to say. May I ask why you wish to prevent me from returning?"

There is something, and Dobby is hesitant about labelling it as such, _dangerous_ in his expression. Not enough to really notice, but enough to send the tiniest shiver running down your spine and leave you wondering why.

"Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger." Dobby says, wringing his hands together.

"Go on." The boy seems amused by something he has said, Dobby tries to put his point across.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year!"

"A plot?" the boy repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching, "How... nefarious."

Dobby opens his mouth to try and reason with the great Harry Potter. So brave... but he is beaten to the punch.

"Danger is when the most interesting things are discovered. If no-one takes risks, why, nothing new would ever be learned. And I cannot have that, now can I?" he says, almost chidingly and Dobby feels to urge to feel guilty.

"Dobby had heard the great Harry Potter was in the house Ravenclaw, and that he is very smart. Harry Potter is great indeed!" he says, looking up into the green eyes that look down on him like a lord. "But it is _because_ Harry Potter is so great that he cannot be lost! He must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Those eyes do not change but Dobby shivers anyway.

"Perhaps I would be more inclined to agree if I knew who it was who was plotting." He says, his eyes boring into Dobby's own.

Dobby wants to tell Harry Potter, he really does. But he can't, and he hates himself for it.

"I can't great Harry Potter sir. Dobby is sorry." He mumbles, looking away.

"You cannot tell me, or you will not?"

Dobby looks up. No! Harry Potter is thinking ill of him?

"I cannot sir, Dobby's family has forbidden it!" he protests and feels relief fill his little body when the boy nods.

"I see. And out if idle curiosity, who is your family?"

Dobby chews his lip. Then his eyes widen and he drops to the floor and beats his head against the flagstones. It hurts, it hurts _so much_ but he can't stop, not until the magic is satisfied.

The boy does nothing to stop him until he sees the small smear of blood on the concrete, steadily growing larger. A deceptively strong hand grabs him by the back of his clothing and pulls him up.

Dobby sways, his head pounding and the wound bleeding freely. He heals it with a snap of his fingers but lets the pain linger. He will not skip his punishment.

Harry Potter is so very kind and good.

"Dobby is sorry sir." He mumbles, "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir... the wizard family Dobby serves. Dobby is a house elf - bound to serve one house and one family forever."

The boy leans forward, intrigued.

"Can you not just leave?" he asks and looks as though he wants to take notes. Dobby is being of use to the great Harry Potter! The thought makes Dobby almost forget the pain he's in.

"A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. Dobby will serve the family until he dies sir." He explains it as best he can, referring to himself in the third person, as is polite.

"Interesting." is the only comment.

"So Harry Potter will not return to Hogwarts?" he asks hopefully.

The boy chuckles, those vapid eyes dancing.

"I'm afraid Dobby, that Hogwarts is somewhere that I cannot just leave alone."

Dobby is getting desperate. He knows Harry Potter has no need of such a lowly creature to give him advice, but he feels that it is his duty.

"Does Harry Potter sir wish to see his friends again?" he hints, hating himself for stooping to such a level.

The boy looks faintly surprised.

"I suppose I could stand to see Michael again, why do you ask?"

Dobby fidgets.

"Harry Potter is going back to Hogwarts to see his friends. Friends who do not even _write_ to Harry Potter?" he says slyly.

The boys smile grows sharp and humourless and Dobby takes a step back.

"_Oh?_ And how would you know _that_?" he asks, in a tone that says he _knows_.

Dobby slowly reaches into his clothes and pulls out a few envelopes.

The house elf sees the smile drop for the first time since he has met Harry Potter. That scares him more than he would like to admit.

The boy stands, towering over the smaller creature with ease. He stretches out a hand.

"If you would?" It's not a request.

Dobby shakes his head, tensing. Harry Potter would never hurt him, Harry Potter is too good, too great-

Suddenly the boy is in front of him, squatting down and looking him in the eyes. Dobby hadn't even seen him move.

"My _letters_ Dobby." He says pleasantly, although the smile is still not on his lips.

"Dobby can't." He says, his voice shaking. "Not unless Harry Potter will promise he will not return to Hogwarts!"

The boy pauses and Dobby silently begs him to accept, if only to spare Dobby having to hurt his hero.

"If I promise, will you give me my letters and stop spying on me?"

Dobby wrings his hands.

"Yes."

The smile is back on the boys face and Dobby almost breathes a sigh of relief. Although the smile, while expected, is nothing kind.

"Very well. I promise."

Dobby stretches out the hand holding the letters and they are taken from him, a feeling of empowerment going with them, leaving guilt in its crevice.

"Thank you Harry Potter, for taking Dobby's lowly advice." He says, bowing.

The boy looks amused and nods his head.

Dobby gives him a grin and disappears with a crack, only a smear of blood on the concrete, and a handful of letters ever telling that he was there.

Szayel is bemused as he stares at the spot where the creature vanishes. So naive. So very amusing. He admits, he almost lost his temper when it was revealed that the little being had been keeping his correspondence from him, after all, it was galling to be outwitted by such a pitiful thing.

But he had his letters, and more importantly...

Dropping the letters on his chair, he knelt down next to the smear of blood. His smile widening, he pulled a swab and small vial from one of his pockets, having learned that discoveries did not always wait for you to go and collect your equipment. He took a sample of the blood and stowed it away, vowing to examine it later.

How remarkable.

* * *

Idly dropping into the chair in front of his desk, Szayel opens the letters from Michael. Lazily skimming the words, he chuckles and reaches for some parchment to pen a reply. It is a pity, there is only a week or so before school starts, and no time to visit his friend. He feels rather put out, he had so many questions for Lady Corner.

Having no owl to send his letters with, he decides to wait until Michael sends him another one, from the dates written in small, sharp letters, he has been sending them regularly.

Such a curious boy.

* * *

Szayel stares impassively at the simpering blond monstrosity that is currently beaming, posing for a photo. He finds it reminds him vaguely of a bastardised cross between Findor and Luppi with the personality of Charlotte Cuulhorne. As it was, he was glad such a creature did not exist, and if it did, it would have been similar to the Antichrist.

"Bless my soul, it can't be! Harry Potter!"

His smile threatens to drop as he's jerked forward and into the spotlight, as it is, it just grows the tiniest bit sharp.

He can hear Michael protesting as a photographer knocks into him, trying to get a good shot of the two celebrities together.

Lockharts hand is still on his arm.

Reaching up, he forcefully disentangles himself from the man, his friendly, vapid smile growing slightly as he sees the blonde wince. Lockhart does not attempt to touch him again.

"Draco, why don't you speak with Harry and Michael? I have business with Lady Corner."

Szayel finds himself rather impressed by Lucius Malfoy. The man has power, both political and personal and charisma in spades. If there is anything Szayel can respect, and he admits that it's a short list, it is a worthy opponent. He feels calculating eyes on him and turns from his conversation with the Malfoy scion to look into the gray eyes of his father. He gives a saccharine smile, his eyes half lidded and receives nothing in return. The Malfoy patriarch narrows his eyes imperceptibly and Szayel's smile widens.

Later, he sees the fight between Lucius and the Weasley. The act is good, if a little out of character. Szayel approves, but knows he would have done things differently. He's amused by the whole charade.

His eyes dance as he spies the innocuous textbook in little Ginny Weasleys cauldron. Lord Malfoy has been wonderfully subtle.

There is a glimmer in that unnatural green as they follow the youngest Weasley out of the shop with disturbing focus.

Well played, he thinks. Very well played indeed.

* * *

As he looks into the mirror, studying his reflection, he allows a small frown to cross his face. It is curious, he thinks idly to himself while drawing away and flicking one last look towards the mirror, that the tiny fleck of poisonous yellow he finds in his right iris makes him feel so giddy.

* * *

As he boards the train and is sitting with a notepad on his lap and his forehead resting against the glass of the window, he thinks on that innocuous little book that has him so intrigued. He can sense that there is something off about it, and his use of his weak Pesquisa revealed nothing but a vague feeling of a bound soul.

He had looked for the small red headed girl when he had made his way onto the platform, but saw nothing of her or her family. No matter, he would find a way to wrest it from her possession at some point.

He shifts in his seat and entertains thought of thievery that drag up long forgotten feelings from a lifetime or two ago.

"Harry?"

He turns languidly, a small upturn of the lips his only reaction to the call of his name.

Michael is in the doorway, looking delightfully outraged. Szayel's smile widens and he waves an indolent hand.

"Michael." He greets, "care to join me?"

The normalness of his request puts the other boy off slightly and he allows himself to be led by his own legs to sit of the seat across from his friend.

Szayel sits up straighter and crosses his legs, the notebook on his lap held steady by a single hand, an expectant, amused look in his eyes.

Michael looks as though he is going to burst, and Szayel decides, in an odd moment of benevolence, to ease his tension.

"My apologies for not answering your letters, they were… withheld, from me."

Seeing the others anger abate slightly, to be partially replaced by confusion, he continues. Michael has a much better understanding of the politics of the wizarding world than he did, much to his displeasure. There was no concise guide to all the ins and outs of the magical world. Yet.

But as in all places, knowledge was power. And he would know _everything._

* * *

Szayel allows himself to relax slightly once he sits at the Ravenclaw table and lets the conversation wash over him. The hum and babble of voices is somewhat soothing, and Szayel looks out from under hooded eyelids at the rest of the hall.

Helping himself to potatoes, he wonders idly when he found his liking for the western food. It had to have been sometime last year, when he had permitted himself a meal. Surviving on meagre reiatsu alone was not pleasant and not even the scarce… luxuries, he allowed himself during his tenure at the Dursleys were enough to truly sate him. So he'd weaned himself back onto human food, and was glad he had.

He tunes in when Michael begins taking to him about something or other and he catches a few words on the subject of his mother and someone called 'Lord Nott'. Apparently, Lady Corner is on the prowl once again.

Szayel still wants to meet her.

* * *

He frowns as he walks down the corridor to his Transfiguration lesson, the loud, chattering crowd attempting to pull him into its flow.

He is being followed, he is sure of it.

He brushes it off, it's nothing serious and he has better things to do with his time than waste energy.

* * *

Severus Snape is a man who likes routine. He likes things to be the same as they always had, unless he is dissatisfied with them.

Pulling the door to his office shut, he sets off down the hallways of the dungeon to his classroom. It is the same route he has been walking for eleven years now, ever since he took up the position of teaching potions. The same cold, unforgiving stone walls. The same pallid, dank air. The same dip in the stone beneath his feet, telling of many years of use.

Home.

His mood sours the closer he gets to his destination. If there is one thing he hates, it is children. He feels his mouth thin at the thought and finds it darkly amusing that the one place he feels most as home in is a school. He isn't modest enough to deny that he was a genius in the field of potions. As a child, he had been labelled a prodigy. He also knows that those labelled as genii are some of the worst possible people to be in a teaching position. He really doesn't care.

As he wrenches the door to his faithful classroom open, he ignores the yelps and muffled shrieks his entrance inevitably inspires and scans the room.

And there he was.

Severus almost finds it funny that his thoughts always seem to return to one particular figure over any other.

Almost.

Harry Potter, he admits, is a brilliant child. Even for a Ravenclaw. Clever- no. Not clever, a _genius._

His colleagues are unnerved by the boy and Severus can see where they are coming from. But he isn't worried about the young boys somewhat unsettling demeanour (although a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers that he really should be). Not that he would worry about the progeny of James Potter anyway, he assures himself.

No, because Severus recognises a tiny something in the midst of the mystery behind those vapid, half lidded eyes. Boredom. Tediousness. Ennui.

The feeling that everything is going just a little too slowly. That feeling of being out of touch with your peers. The dislike of a system that caters to the mundane, the _average._

Severus knows, because he's seen that look in his own dark eyes far more often that he would have liked.

* * *

Sitting comfortably in the library, secluded away from his peers, Szayel cocks his head to one side.

The feeling is back again. He furrows his brow, thinking. He's being watched, but the sensation is… _different._ He isn't sure why.

He turns the page of his book with an almost caress, and lowers his eyes once again to the neat print.

It annoys him.

He doesn't like the feeling of being the bug under microscope.

He would rather be the one on the other side of the lens.

* * *

He sits, listening to Michael talk about some incident with their new Defence teacher.

"And then -the fool- he let a full cage or Cornish Pixies loose on the Gryffindor/Slytherin class! With no instruction on how to combat them, not even a suggested book." Michael shakes his head, a scowl on his face. If there is one thing he hates, it is idiocy. "Just goes to show I suppose, just because you are good a something doesn't mean you can teach it to others."

Szayel raises an eyebrow, a small amused smile on his lips. He leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers.

"True. Professor Snape is another I believe."

Michael snorts, spinning a quill between his fingers.

"Exactly. I'm just glad that it's unlikely Lockheart'll try anything so stupid with us now."

Szayel agrees, but thinks it would at least have been amusing to see his classmates panic.

* * *

He is quite comfortably curled up in a chair in the common room, idly penning some notes of one of his many on-going projects. He had been mildly amused when he had spotted Neville Longbottom sending a letter with a very domineering looking horned owl. It seemed his grandmother had seen fit to replace the toad that had gone missing the year before, leaving Neville quite distraught. A flicker of a smile passes across his lips.

A Blessing indeed.

Lazily doodling Plancks Constant in his notebook and wondering if wizards even _knew_ what E =_hc_ over Lambda meant, he peruses on how he was actually enjoying procrastination. He hopes that he isn't getting lazy.

Suddenly, he freezes.

_"Come ... come to me... Let me rip you... Let me tear you ... Let me _kill_ you..."_

His breath catches in his throat and his quill falls to the floor and begins to bleed ink into the blue carpet. He is absolutely still, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.

He quickly scans the few students still in the common room at this hour and sees none of them have reacted.

He clenches his jaw and as quickly as he can without drawing too much attention to himself, he gathers his belongings and slips up the staircase to his dormitory.

He _loathes_ the feeling of being taken by surprise. That someone had been able to get so close and yet not alert him to their presence is something he cannot allow. He bares his teeth like an animal in the privacy behind his hangings, his eyes shining in the gloom. He has been getting bored.

Now this was a _challenge._

* * *

He knows he is in a cheerful mood the following day. The dark circles under his eyes and the sharp expression on his face makes sure that people stay away from him. Michael (and Szayel is once again reminded why he likes the other boy) takes one look at him and says nothing, walking with him to breakfast.

He also knows his smile is eager and his eyes are feverish, and that people have noticed.

He finds that really, he doesn't much care.

* * *

She feels her breath catch as she spies him in the library, indolently turning a page now and then. He is sprawled yet somehow poised –as always- in his chair, and his glasses have slid down his nose some.

She swallows and continues to look through the gap in the books on the shelf. She sees him crease his brow and look up and she quickly flattens herself against the bookshelf, her breathing ragged and muffled.

She waits for longer than is probably necessary before she steals one last look at his profile before fleeing quietly from the library.

* * *

Michael looks concernedly over at his friend. Harry Potter is looking rather the worse for wear. His skin is as pale as it has always been but there is a tiredness to his eyes that is only tempered by a spark of something that Michael can't quite identify. He supposes his should be proud of his fellow Ravenclaw for taking such lengths in the pursuit of knowledge, but he can't quite manage it.

He sighs and thinks that the days Harry Potter takes his advice is the day his mother settles down for good.

He knows Michael is worried about him.

He can see it in his friends concerned, dark eyes.

He reassures himself that he doesn't care.

* * *

Michael is walking down the Defence corridor, thinking on his current predicament when he hears a faint splash. He looks down and frowns as he sees that one of his feet is half submerged in cold water. His eyes follow the puddle outwards and see that it's not really a puddle at all, and more like a small lake. Turning up his nose at the thought of trying to cross the watery expanse and ruining his robes, he half turns to go a different route when he pauses as something catches his eye.

His breath catching in his throat, his fists clench as he sees the macabre profile of the cat, swinging lazily from the torch bracket. His mouth goes dry and he takes a quick, stumbling step backwards. His eyes are not on the cat, but on the words that grace the wall behind it.

_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened._

The chilling message glistens in the flickering firelight, the thick red substance that he desperately tells himself is paint sliding down the stone walls.

Stumbling backwards and with a stricken look on his face, he turns to run.

_Enemies of the Heir beware._

* * *

Szayel looks down at his notebook and frowns. He has a habit of writing things down, in order to make sense of them, and this particular puzzle is no different. Twirling the quill between long fingers, he stares at the words on the page, willing them to make sense. They do not obey. The frown deepens and his expression darkens until in a fit of temper, he throws the little book at the wall with a snarl. He clenches his hands and curses fate, himself, Aizen, Lockhart, the Dursleys, Aizen, Nnoitora, Aizen and a dozen more in his mind.

The quill snaps between thin fingers.

"Harry."

Szayel raises an eyebrow and with a small twitch of his lips, replies.

"Michael."

The other boy scowls at him without heat, and sits himself down on the armchair opposite, pushing rolls of parchment and heavy tomes out of the way.

Without a word, he reaches into a bag and pulled out his own roll of parchment, with notes carefully inscribed in tiny, precise handwriting.

Szayel looks on, bemused.

Scanning the page with his lower lip between his teeth, Michael appears to find what he is looking for. With a quick, serious glance up, he begins to read aloud.

"As you no doubt already know, Hogwarts was founded around 990 A.D. by two wizards and two witches: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They each represented an aspect of wizarding that they wanted to bring out in new students. However, shortly after founding the school, Slytherin had a falling out with the other founders about blood purity. Slytherin wanted to admit only pure-blood students, but the other three founders disagreed. Slytherin then left after a disagreement on the issue with Gryffindor."

Michael looks up and meets Szayel's eyes. Szayel muses idly that he's always been impressed with that.

A tiny smirk crosses the brown haired boys lips and makes Szayels own smile widen.

"However," Michael continues, with the air of someone who is eager to tell of what he knows. "What you may _not _know, is that Slytherin was rumoured to have built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. Slytherin, supposedly, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the 'horror within', and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic. The 'horror within' is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control. There have been numerous searches conducted over the years, but nothing has ever been found. Most people don't believe it exists." He finished.

Szayel is quiet.

Michael looks at him penetratingly.

"There. Now you know. Now get some bloody sleep." He orders gruffly.

Szayel's smile, he thinks, feels somehow softer as he looks at the other boy.

There is a long silence and Michael begins to fidget.

"Very well."

The other boy looks up, surprised, from where he has been poking his foot into the carpet.

"Really?" He says before he can stop himself.

"Yes." He says indulgently. "Might I ask though, how did you come across this information?"

Michael suddenly chuckles and shakes his head, dark hair falling in his face.

"Asked Binns."

Szayel is for once, lost for words.

"Oh."

* * *

The lamplight throws his face into sharp relief and his footsteps are silent as he weaves between the shelves. The library is still and the air is heavy, the disembodied light bobbing like a will-o-the-wisp in the blackness.

Szayel pauses at a particular shelf and scans the titles quickly.

Michael thinks he is in his bed not two meters from him. But his friend trusts too easily and has not yet learned how to taste lies.

* * *

A duelling club. Szayel raises an eyebrow as he studies the board, not paying heed to the crowd of people who are craning to get a look, but are keeping their distance from him.

He doesn't think he'll go. It's not really his thing, after all.

* * *

He's standing there, next to that Corner boy, with an irritated expression on his face. His stare is sharp and measured, and his mouth (for once) is not curved into a smile.

She doesn't want to keep her eyes on him for too long, fearful that he'll catch her stare. So she shrinks into the press of people and fades. Because she's nothing special. Not really.

He narrows his eyes. He can feel that stare again.

* * *

Szayel hums as he twirls his wand between his fingers. The girl -who he vaguely recollects is from Hufflepuff- is trembling as she stands opposite him.

He turns his vapid, smiling eyes on her and her tremors increase tenfold. He's doubtful she can even hold her wand, and resists the urge to sneer.

"Don't worry Miss Bones," he says in what he hopes is a vaguely reassuring tone, he doesn't want her to faint in his mere presence. "Give me your best shot."

Susan looks as though she is about to cry.

* * *

They get the news of the news of the newest victims in the evening. Professor Flitwick calls them into the common room and passes on the message in sombre tones.

He gives them all a measured, level stare.

"I hope you understand the severity of this incident." His eyes sweep over them and he holds a presence that should have been out of place on one of his stature. "The staff will be taking all available precautions and I trust that you will do the same. I would ask you to refrain from writing home with the details, as the one thing we do not need is a stampede of frantic parents." He advises, although his tone tells them it is not a request.

His face softens slightly.

"Don't worry." He reassures, "We're doing all we can to keep you safe."

Standing at the back, half lit by the fluttering light of a dying candle, Szayel licks his lips and thinks that while Michael may not have the skill, _he_ certainly does and he knows that lies taste like dark chocolate; sweet, with a bitter aftertaste.

* * *

It's Christmas.

Szayel certainly never thought much of the holiday, but after receiving the Invisibility cloak the year before, is somewhat fonder of it than he had been.

There are no magical treasures this time, but Michael does gift him with a book on advanced potions and a new note book, something that Szayel has been wanting for some time, seeing as he filled his old, battered one the previous month.

* * *

'_Let me rip. Let me tear… let me _kill…_'_

He wonders if whatever it is he is hearing would let him join in on the fun.

* * *

Potions, Szayel reflects, has not lost its appeal.

Severus Snape on the other hand, has not gained any either.

"_Powdered_ Lunamoth wings are key ingredients for truth potions, you _cretinous_ little _fool._ Fermented, they are likely to dissolve the frontal lobe of your pitiful little brain! Although what can you expect, from a _Hufflepuff?_"

He does, however, have his moments.

* * *

She is in the library, waiting for him to arrive. It is his custom on a weekend, she has realised, to arrive at the library after breakfast and work until lunch, after which he will likely disappear.

But she's got that feeling again and despite her mind screaming at her to run back to her dormitory and hide, she secludes herself behind rows of musty books.

She can't see if he is there from where she is without giving herself away, so she pulls out a pocket mirror that she carries for just this purpose.

* * *

Ginny Weasley is minding her own business. It's lunch now, and while she doesn't particularly want to sit in the Great Hall with everyone else, that is where the food is, so she lets her feet take her there.

It's a fight to keep her eyes open. She's so tired these days. She was up for most of the previous night, conversing with Tom. She doesn't have any other friends. She doesn't _need_ any other friends. Why would she, when she can carry the best friend a girl could wish for in her pocket?

Although, she thinks with a heavy feeling in her stomach, she and Tom have had their first argument.

It was something trivial, and in her anger she lashed out at him. He had responded in kind, angry at her. She felt guilt seeping into her soul. Tom didn't deserve that, but she hadn't been thinking clearly in her tiredness.

But he had snapped at her, and she isn't feeling guilty enough yet to apologise to him.

She wanders into the Great Hall just as two people are coming out. She curls in on herself, trying to stay unnoticed. From behind a curtain of red hair, she glances up to see who it is. Brown eyes widen and her cheeks turn crimson as she sees the figure of her favourite Ravenclaw.

She makes to hurry past but in the flurry, she somehow manages to knock into him. She bounces off his solid form (and she doesn't think to wonder how a rake thin twelve year old boy could be so unmovable) and lets out an embarrassing squeak.

As she flails, a hand catches her arm and steadies her. Falling still, she looks up with dread in her gut and she meets his eyes. He is smiling at her (her!) and his hazy green eyes are fixed steadily on her own

She vaguely realises that his friend (she can't remember his name) is staring.

The hand lets go of her and she feels her face become aflame.

His smile widens by a couple of teeth. To her, the smile is kindly and reaches his eyes.

"Careful." He chides.

She is speechless for a moment before everything wells up inside her and she thinks she may explode.

"I'm sorry!" she cries before her legs suddenly begin to work and she flees from his presence, forgetting her earlier hunger completely and running in the direction of her dorm.

She's out of breath when she reaches her bed, having barely stopped to stumble over the password to Gryffindor tower.

Throwing herself on her bed, she clutches her pillow and bites the fabric through her grin to keep herself from screaming.

She feels stupid. Stupid and happy and light as a balloon and heavy with humiliation.

She wants to talk to Tom. She can apologise and then tell him everything. Tom will forgive her.

She fumbles for the comforting feel of the small book in her pocket, but comes up with only air. Panic creeping into her thoughts, she almost rips her robes apart.

Tom is gone.

She is hyperventilating.

Where is he? Had she dropped him? How _could_ she? She jumps up from her bed and forces her way through the hangings, her breath coming in painful twists.

Where?

She stills. She bumped into Him. And then she ran, not paying any attention to her flapping robes.

Tom must have fallen when she was running.

She rushes out of the door before her thoughts have even finished.

The thought of thievery never even crosses her mind.

* * *

Szayel grins as he walks back to his dormitory, a spring in his step.

Michael is shooting him inquisitive, calculating looks from out of the corner of his eye.

Students who they pass in the hallways are left wide eyed and curious.

Szayel is too elated to give a damn.

* * *

He takes the small, innocuous book out of his pocket and, almost reverently, lays it on his desk. It is bound in faded black faux leather and, on the back; he can see worn letters telling him that the diary was bought at Vauxhall Road, London. Muggleborn.

Opening it with care, his senses are stretched out and his body tensed. On the front page, sharp eyes caught the name written at the top, a scratchy date written underneath.

T.M Riddle.

* * *

Michael is feeling somewhat guilty.

There has been another attack. They found some girl in the library the previous morning and whispers are still fluttering around like angry butterflies.

He mentions this to Harry, who only smiles and brushes a strand of hair from his eyes.

He doesn't seem to care.

No. That's not right. He cares about the situation, just not about the human life involved in it.

Michael (guiltily) sort of agrees with him. He is a pureblood, he is safe.

It's not really his problem now is it?

* * *

He relishes the chance to have something unknown at his fingertips. With his limited resources, he can only do so much and this irks him somewhat.

Eventually, he stumbles across the books' most remarkable quality, save its apparent indestructibleness. The ink that he lets fall from the tip of a quill stays on the surface of the paper for a brief moment before sinking into it, leaving nothing behind, as though it has never been there at all.

After hours of studying the phenomena and coming to the conclusion that he has no idea how it works, he tentatively begins to write.

'_Hello.'_ He composes, feeling somewhat foolish. He wonders if he should not have thought of something better to write, before coming up blank on just what that might be.

He waits for a few seconds, quill poised at the ready over the new notebook Michael gave him for Christmas. The word sinks in like he expected, but nothing more happens.

A frown marring his face, he wonders if he has not been too hasty in his hypothesis.

It is then he notices his own ink bleeding back out of the pages, and forming words that are not his own.

'_Hello. Who might you be?'_

Giddiness. Elation. _Hunger._

He is wondering just how to play this. In the end, he goes for naive.

'_My name is Harry Potter. Who are you?'_

_Hello Harry. My name is Tom. Would you tell me how you came by my diary?'_

'_I found it. It was lying in a hallway and I picked it up.'_

'_Interesting. I would have thought it would have been more effectively disposed of.'_

'_Why would anyone want to get rid of you?'_

'_That's the question, isn't it? I know things. This diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I assume that is where you are right now?'_

'_Yes, although they don't teach us about talking diaries.'_

'_I would think not. It is complex magic. And I am lucky that same magic prevents my destruction by persons who would wish me harm.'_

'_Do you mean about the Chamber of Secrets? Because things are happening here, bad things, and you said you know about things that happened here…'_

'_Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, a mere _myth, _and that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster at the time, Professor Dippet, was ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, and forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned for good.'_

'_You know who opened it last time? Who was it?'_

'_If you so wish, I can show you. Images are far more valuable than words and I can show you my account f that night. Let me take you into my memories, and you can see for yourself.'_

'_I don't know… I don't know how that would work! You're a _book.'

'_I mean no harm, it will help you to understand.'_

'_But the Professors told us that mind magics can be really dangerous! Should I get one of them to help?'_

'_No, that will not be necessary. I can tell you in words then, if you would prefer.'_

'_Alright.'_

'_I was in my fifth year, and one evening I was called into the Headmasters office. We talked about the attacks and the death of one poor girl in my own year, and he told me that the school might have to close if the attacks didn't stop. I'm sure you'd agree that one would prefer to stay here if it were at all possible. I didn't really have a choice after that. I figured out who it was and cornered him as he was trying to smuggle the monster out of the castle. I tried to slay the beast, but the student tried to protect it. So I did the only other thing I could. I turned him in. he was expelled and the 'crisis' was declared over.'_

'_That sounds bad. What was the monster? Was it as horrible am I'm imagining it to be?'_

'_Likely worse. It was a hideous beast. It had a vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs. Its many black eyes gleamed and it possessed a pair of razor-sharp pincers.'_

'And_ it could petrify people? Who on earth would set something like that on students?'_

'_That is the question isn't it? But I found out. I exposed the monster who did it._

It was

_Rubeus Hagrid.'_

* * *

He looks in the mirror again and quickly finds the tiny, almost unnoticeable fleck of venomous yellow half obscured by emerald green. He isn't sure, but he swears that it has increased in size.

* * *

He leans back in his chair in the library, a book on his lap. The table in front of him is laden with several more. He slips his fingers under his glasses and rubs his tired, research worn eyes.

Acromantula.

_Fascinating_.

But a lie nonetheless.

* * *

It takes him some time, and he has to answer some interesting questions from the entity known as 'Tom', but he finds out that the book absorbs only certain liquids. Ink, he already knows, works fine, as does muggle biro. Orange juice does not, and neither does tea.

What potions he has tried however, work just fine.

* * *

He is staring at the diary. The reiatsu is a filthy as his own, yet has a different flavour to it.

Remarkable.

* * *

It has taken six failed attempts, each more frustrating than the last, and a whole month to perfect. The ingredients themselves were nigh on impossible to locate, but Lady Corner is nothing if not well connected.

Michael knows not to ask questions, and his Christmas gift has been invaluable.

If he had been anyone else, it would have been impossible.

But he is who he is, and in his scientific mind; nothing is impossible.

He decides to change tactics.

'_Hello Tom.' _ He scribes, mentally planning how he wishes today's session to go.

'_Harry. It is good to hear from you again. Do you have more questions?'_

He reads the response and is barely aware that there a grin tugging at his mouth.

'_As a matter of fact, I do.'_

'_Oh? I will try to answer what I can.'_

Szayel licks his lips in response, hungry eyes devouring the words.

'_But first, I wish to try something.'_

He doesn't give Tom a chance to reply, as he quickly pens a phrase in Spanish.

The reaction is confusion as to why he is suddenly writing in the other language.

He responds with another foreign, although certainly not for him, tongue.

'_Co ukrywasz?'_

'_... I do not understand. What language is that?'_

He bites his lip in excitment, and his handwriting looses some of it's elegance. The final puzzle peice.

'_Polish. It was an experiment.'_

There is a pause, but it feels like an age.

'_I see. What were you testing, if you don't mind me asking?'_

There is another wait, but Szayel relishes the word he writes next.

'_You.'_

There is what seems like an age before Tom replies, and Szayel likes to think that he is wary.

'_Why would you want to test me?'_

There is a grin that would not have looked out of place on a hyena.

'_Because I am a curious man. I like to _know_ things. And I wish to know about _you_.'_

'_Why not just ask? I have nothing to hide from you.'_

The former Octava lets out a dark chuckle, the lenses in his glasses catching the candlelight.

'_I very much doubt that, Tom Riddle. __You see, I had hoped you could be a worthy opponent. But it seems I was sadly mistaken once again. No, I very much doubt you have 'nothing to hide'. You will not give up your secrets via conventional means, so I shall have to improvise. I suspect the experience will not be pleasant for you.'_

Another wait, longer this time. He is on the verge of frustration when glistening ink bleeding through the paper catches his attention once again.

'_You are not Harry Potter.'  
_

Szayel cannot help himself and he lets out a burst of cackling laughter. The sound bounces off the stone walls of the dormitory and shatters the silence like a hammer on flawless diamond.

Reaching to his left, he delicately lifts a small glass phial filled only half full with thin, clear liquid.

He observes the bottle with lustful, hooded eyes and gently uncorks it, easing the stopper off with a finger and thumb.

With almost reverent care, he dips a pipette into the phial and draws a small amount of the liquid into it. Setting the recorked phial aside, he hovers the pipette over the worn, faded pages of the diary.

Three drops.

That is all that is needed.

The hyena grin intensifies, teeth and lens catch the flickering candlelight.

'_Did you know that powdered Luna moth wings are a bitch to prepare?' _he asks Tom conversationally, his writing sloppier when written by his non dominant right hand.

The answer is immediate, as though its author is on tenterhooks.

'_What?'_

'_Luna moth wings. Fiddly little things they are. But useful. Do you know what potions they are most commonly used in, Tom Riddle?'_

There is the tiniest fraction of a pause, before frantic, chaotic writing bleeds through the page. Final proof.

Tom knows exactly what the pearly, iridescent insect wings are used for.

Ignoring the pleading words and impotent threats from the entity known as Tom Riddle, Szayel lets the three drops of the potion fall onto the pages.

They hold on the surface for a moment, quivering and glistening like liquid diamonds, before sinking faithfully into the paper.

He lets out the breath he didn't realise that he was holding.

He looks to his own notebook, open and ready beside him. It is filled with questions, numbered one through god knows how many.

He will start at the beginning.

He picks up his quill and, after dipping it into his inkpot, begins to write.

As he does so, he murmurs under his breath, whispers passing through lips like the first chill wind of winter.

"You are wrong, little diary. I am Harry Potter. I am just also so much _more_."

* * *

_Well now. Firstly, I apologise. It's been what, two whole years since I published the first one of these? No excuses save the usual really, university, lack of motivation, extreme laziness… You know the drill._

_Either way, it's here. Finally. _

_There will be one more chapter to this, as the original ended up being just a tad too long to fit into one page. __Also, I do not like having to re-insert all my page breaks. As you can see, there are quite a few. -_-_

_Please, do tell me if you like this new installment. I love to know what you all think, it helps me write more. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach, Harry Potter or any of their affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

_Base/s:_ Bleach, Harry Potter

_Title:_ Book Two: Avaritia

_Summary: _Second in the _Purgatorio _series. There are voices in the walls, and stalkers in the hallways. At least not everything is dire; things are getting _interesting_.

_Music used for inspiration:_ I Am a Scientist – Dandy Worhols, Night of the Wolf – Nox Arcana, Black Blade, Corruption, He who Brings the Night, A Hole in the Sun, Master of Shadows, Sidanya, You Will Count Your Dead – Two Steps From Hell,

* * *

As he walks to classes the next day, the weight of the extra book in his bag is noticeable, if only to him.

It's diseased, dense reiatsu is attempting to latch onto his own with little success.

With a mildly irritated look, he bats the offending tendril away.

It shrinks back for a moment, before attempting to surreptitiously feed off of him again.

With a sigh, he gives the coil a sharp tug, and is rewarded when it flinches away and does not attempt to thieve from him again.

He can still feel it, hanging there, waiting for him to relax his guard so it can overtake him when he is at his weakest.

With a frown, he resolves not to carry it on his person anymore.

* * *

His fists are clenched.

Michael sees the taught lines in the back of his hands, the working of his jaw and the measured, controlled breaths.

His friend is angry.

It's here and then it's gone. Caught on the wind and scattered like dandelion seeds.

He watches as Harry takes a deep, slow breath and seems to force himself to relax.

Harry turns to him, and there is a smile twisting his lips that is anything but humorous.

Michael thinks absently that he should probably take a step back, or even make an excuse to leave the room. But the thought does not even take form before it is discarded.

"What's wrong?" he asks tentatively.

Harry turns his vapid gaze on him and he sees something as hard as granite behind the hazy green.

He recognises that look. He's seen it in his mother's eyes often when the funeral arrangements are over and done, the turned earth is still fresh, and a new potential has stumbled into her line of sight.

He's just glad that the look is not directed at him.

* * *

Gone. The diary is gone.

It's _gone._

Someone has taken it from him. He is not finished with it, and is loath to leave the notebook half full of un-ticked questions.

Besides, it's _gone._

Someone, out there in the castle, has the diary.

_His_ diary.

He supposes he should be amused that it was gained by thievery and lost in the same way, but he is not.

He also supposes that he should feel some measure of pride that whomever has the diary, will find it markedly more difficult to use now.

Humour is quite far from his mind right at present, as is pride.

He has been one upped.

Hatred is too tame a word for how much he loathes the feeling.

But he is man enough to know when he should back away, lick his bleeding wounds and prepare for the next fight.

Now is _not_ one of those times.

* * *

He mentally runs through the list of people who could know that the diary was in his possession.

The list is a short one.

Dumbledore.

The headmaster was a wily character, and Szayel could never really be sure how much the aged professor knew. He certainly had the power to relieve his possession of the dark artefact, but did he _know?_

Michael Corner.

He was sure that he had kept the other boy in the dark but with a situation as dire as this, he could not be too careful. What if he had seen him with the diary? What if the diary had somehow exerted influence over him?

(He likes to think his judgement is unclouded, but he knows that he would be conflicted if the other boy was guilty.)

And last but not least, Ginny Weasley.

His preferred vote.

He probably should have seen this coming, after his less than subtle acquisition of the diary. He had abandoned his former plan when he saw her about to enter the Great Hall just as he was exiting, and quickly relieved her of her possession. But he had let the hunger overtake him and he had been sloppy.

What if she had somehow-

No. She is a mere first year student with _nothing_ extra-ordinary about her. What could she have done against _him_?

She is a Gryffindor. She does not have access to Ravenclaw tower. Although, he reasoned, that does not rule her out. It is hardly a matter of difficulty for him to think of several plans in which he could gain entry to another House's common room and subsequently, their dormitories.

But then again, he does not think Ginny Weasley is quite that sharp. Very few people are.

Well, he supposes, a light smile gracing his face, he can always just ask her.

* * *

He has a better idea.

* * *

Ginny is almost crippled with guilt. It is slowly eating away at her soul like acid through stone.

First she lost Tom, and now she has resorted to petty thievery?

And she does not even have the courage (Gryffindor? _Pathetic_.) to do it herself.

So when she hears her name called out in the corridor, she is terrified.

She pretends not to have heard, and speeds up.

She feels a hand catch her around her upper arm. She jumps and twists involuntarily to see who it is.

She almost bursts into tears.

His face breaks into an amiable, light-hearted smile.

Some part of her brain that isn't scared out of her mind notes that she likes the way his kind eyes crinkle when he does that.

"Ginny." He greets, somewhat breathlessly. "I'm glad I caught you."

She somehow manages to nod.

He lets go of her arm and reaches into his bag, and pulls out something that makes her feel sick.

"I wanted to give you this back." He says, holding the diary out to her. She barely registers the words. Horror and confusion do nothing for the wits.

He continues, blithely unaware of her inner turmoil.

"You dropped this in the corridor when you ran off." He says with a kindly grin. "I was going to give it back earlier, but I could never find you!" he chuckles and shakes the diary that he is still holding out to her.

This brow scrunches in innocent confusion.

"This _is_ yours right?"

"Yes!" she bursts out and her voice sounds like the squeak of a mouse.

That nice smile is back.

"Oh, good. Well, here it is. Don't worry," he winks conspiratorially at her and her face heats up. "I haven't read it. It's not very nice to read a girls diary after all."

She holds the book in trembling hands. It's the same. She's sure. It's even got the small faded patch on the bottom of the cover.

There is silence for a moment, and it feels awkward.

He raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I guess I'll be going then." He says in a tone that says he thinks she's a little odd.

What- oh!

"Thank you!" she almost shouts at him. He grins again (for her, only for _her_), waves and strides away.

Mechanically, she stows the diary in her bag. She sets off in the direction of the Charms classroom, despite having History next period.

She waits outside the door as the bell rings and fellow first years begin to file out.

She spies a head of dirty blonde hair and calls out.

"Luna!"

The small girl with the large eyes turns and makes her way over to her.

"Hello Ginny." She greets in her perpetual dreamy tone. "You don't have Charms next."

"I know that." Ginny almost snaps at her. "I need to talk to you."

Luna blinks her huge, vacant eyes slowly.

"You're talking to me now."

Ginny wants to roll her eyes.

"In private?" she presses.

Luna smiles and leads her to an empty hallway off the main corridor.

Ginny wrings her hands.

"You don't need to get it for me!" she blurts out before she can stop herself.

Luna blinks again.

"What?"

The Weasley flushes and wrings her hands.

"You don't need to get my diary back for me. Harry gave it back to me."

Luna frowns. The expression looks odd on her face.

"But Ginny," she starts, and her voice is decidedly less dreamy. "I already got it for you. It's in my dorm. I was going to wait for you after History and give it to you then."

Ginny is sure that she looks very foolish with her mouth open.

Luna peers at her.

"You should close your mouth, Gerbangles might get in, and then you'd be in trouble." She says in a vaguely reprimanding tone.

"No! That can't be right! Harry _gave _it to me just now!" she protests.

"Well, maybe they are cloning themselves." The blonde girl considers for a moment. "Or they're breeding."

Ginny shakes her head. No, it can't be.

"Can you go and get it for me now Luna? Please? Meet me outside Gryffindor tower!"

She is gone before the diminutive Ravenclaw can reply.

* * *

So the little Gryffindor mouse has some brains after all.

Who would have thought?

* * *

She plunges a hand into her bag and shoving aside her second hand school books, her fingers meet only air. She feels around again, desperation making her face appear fevered.

It's not there.

She feels as though she wants to scream.

She needs to find her Harry.

She thanks her lucky stars that she remembers where the Ravenclaw common room is. Normally, she would never dare even think of doing something like this, but a phrase she has heard her father say comes to mind.

_Desperate times call for desperate measures._

She skids to a halt in from of the entrance.

"I need to see Harry Potter!" She gasps; her lungs are twinging with every gulped breath.

There is silence for a moment before a calm, monotonous voice speaks.

"No."

She splutters for a second before realising that he is _Harry Potter_ and people must try to see him all the time.

"Please. Can you at least tell him the Ginny Weasley needs to talk to him? He'll remember me, I promise!" she almost begs the guardian.

A pause.

"Very well. It is his decision whether he will speak with you, Ginny Weasley."

She sighs in relief. She fidgets for a few minutes before a hole in the wall opens up and the very person she wanted to see steps out looking confused.

He looks at her neutrally.

"Ginny Weasley, yes?" he asks.

Ginny almost frowns. He knows who she is, he called her by name not half an hour ago. The calm, curious address makes her blink in confusion, but the blank, vapid eyes (so different from when he was talking to her earlier) make her mouth go dry.

"Uhh, yeah." She scolds herself. She sounds like an idiot. "I was wondering, that diary you gave back to me-"

He cuts her off, a crease of a frown on his face.

"What diary? What are you talking about?"

Ginny gapes.

"You- you _gave_ me my diary back, not half an hour ago! I dropped it when I bumped into you the other day and you found it. You were going to give it to me earlier but you said you couldn't find me! You _gave _me it!"

Harry looks somewhat startled and a little annoyed.

(Has she made him _angry?_)

"_Miss_ Weasley," he starts and his tone tells her that he thinks she is mad. She feels a pang when he calls her that. What happened to 'Ginny'? "The only time I have ever interacted with you was when we bumped into each other the other day. I have no clue what you are talking about."

She wants to cry.

"I have not been out of this common room all period. I have a free slot until dinner. My friend Michael can vouch that I was here."

Each word he says is like a knife in her gut.

"I don't know what you are thinking of by coming here Miss Weasley, but I suggest you go to the hospital wing and get yourself checked over."

"But-but-"

His face softens ever so slightly.

"Stress often causes the oddest of symptoms. I advise you go and speak with Madam Pomfrey though, in case it is something less mundane."

He nods to her curtly before quickly disappearing into his common room, leaving her standing there alone.

* * *

She must be going mad.

The blackouts, the tiredness, the memory loss, and now the hallucinations.

She swallows and turns away, feeling as though she is about to vomit.

She doesn't remember the walk back to her tower, but she sees Luna waiting for her there. She had forgotten about her. She felt a small stab of guilt at making the girl wait. But Luna is not her friend. Not really.

The blonde girl smiles at her and gives her the faded book. Ginny thinks it might disappear from her hands even as she holds it.

She has Tom back.

She snaps out a thank you to the other first year before following it with an apology and a goodbye.

Luna looks a little sad as she nods and turns away. Ginny puts it from her mind. Luna is weird, everyone knows that.

* * *

Finally, she is in her dorm.

Like a madwoman, she snatches a quill from a desk (she doesn't stop to see if it's even hers) and begins to write.

She pauses, wriggling with excitement on her bed, and sees the words sink into the pages.

She frowns.

Tom is not answering.

She tries again.

The words sink into the parchment, but there is no reply.

Then realization hits with the force of a charging Erumpent.

Tom is ignoring her.

He doesn't want to talk to her.

He hates her.

The quill drops from her fingers as lump forms in her throat and she finally begins to cry.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall is worried about one of her lions. Ginny Weasley has always looked shy and worn, but when she shuffles into the Great Hall one morning after being absent from all but her lessons for a few days, Minerva immediately sees changes.

She is trembling and pale, her red hair looks as though it has not been washed and the dark circles under her eyes are more pronounced than ever.

She sits away from her peers and occasionally sneaks glances at the Ravenclaw table before looking like she is about to cry and ducking her head again.

Minerva, using the quick mind that made her a formidable Transfiguration mistress, quickly pieces together the truth.

It is no secret that the youngest Weasley has a schoolgirl crush on the famous Boy-Who-Lived.

Personally, Minerva can't see why.

The boy is- and she loathes using such a crass term, but it was all she can think of- creepy.

He's _too_ clever, _too_ quick and his insipid, saccharine smile _too_ composed.

His manner, she thinks, is like the sickly sweet, cloying scent of _decay_.

But she chalks it down to adoration by a little girl not old enough to know better.

Ginny Weasley had confessed to Harry Potter, and he had rejected her.

It's obvious.

So when she calls the first year into her office the next day and asks as kindly as she can what the problem is, she is not surprised when the little Weasley looks awkward and stutters out denials.

She nods like she believes it, hands the girl a biscuit and a cup of tea before taking out some papers to mark while the student calms down.

When a little voice mutters a thank you, she looks up and gives her a small smile before shooing her out of the office, content in the fact that Ginny Weasley had regained some colour to her cheeks before she left.

* * *

It is pathetically easy to see that Ginny Weasley is breaking.

It's not all his doing, of course. But he likes to think he can take credit for the final push.

* * *

His near eidetic memory allowed him to recreate the diary as best he could, before he put on the mask of what little Ginny wanted to see in him and handed the conjured fake to her, leaving her stunned. The recreation is not perfect, he knows, but it is _more_ than enough to fool a first year who wants to believe.

Immediately, she rushed to secrete her returned treasure to her bag. From his secluded hiding place, he had restricted himself to a silent grin as she made her way towards the Charms wing.

Predictable.

* * *

Private conversation indeed, he had scoffed. She had not even bothered to check if she was being followed.

So, it was the small blonde Ravenclaw. Luna. The dupe.

Stupid girl, for someone so observant.

So desperate for friendship, and to be driven to such levels…

Although, he considered, a delighted shadow flickering across his features, she has an impressive lack of morals.

* * *

He saw her horror when she reached into her bag and came up empty. The conjured book does not last for long with his lack of knowledge in the subject, and for once, his failings are working to his advantage.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he stares at her hungrily, a light in his eyes that one could almost describe as unholy.

* * *

It's back in her possession again.

He dearly wishes he could be there when she writes in it again, expecting her _beloved_ Tom to be at her fingertips once more.

The spell he used was not a complex one, only about third year standards, but he is confident she will not see through it.

A simple invisibility spell that stops any words staying on the parchment for too long. The Weasley twins used it as a practical joke in his first year, if he recalls correctly. That bushy haired Gryffindor had been furious, her notes apparently ruined.

He wonders if it is merely luck that he cast the spell as a security measure in case curious dorm mates peeked (he does not know any wards yet, which irks him), but dismissed the thought with a mental wave of an indolent hand.

Luck, while useful, does not hold a candle to foresight.

* * *

Lockhart tries to rope him into performing in front of the class. Again.

He gives the bumbling professor his best saccharine smile. He looks at the man he holds in such contempt from under his eyelashes, demurely looking out with hazy eyes.

"I would rather not sir… I do not think I could do it justice."

He is sure everyone in the room can pick up in his thinly veiled sarcasm, and judging by the quiet titters from behind him, he is right.

Lockhart surprises them all by letting the subject drop.

He does not bring it up a third time.

* * *

Szayel is perusing his notebook.

He is leaning back on his bed in a relaxed position, his head propped against white pillows and legs stretched out.

His glasses have slid down his nose and there is a cup of tea on the bedside table, steam still wafting gently from the mug.

Tom Riddle is the heir of Slytherin.

Shocking.

Although, the former Octava thinks with a grin, he did a rather pathetic job.

Only one death!

And even that one took him a year to get around to.

He idly skims through the few questions he had gotten around to asking and reviews his findings.

Tom Riddle is- or was- the heir of Slytherin and was at Hogwarts fifty years prior.

For some reason, he had set a 'basilisk' (Whatever that was) on the school and had- despite the assumed lethality of the monster he had commandeered- only managed to rack up one kill.

He had killed a girl in a bathroom, and even that was an accident.

Szayel resists the asinine impulse to smack his forehead with his palm.

Having researched the term and found several references to the beast he had set about absorbing whatever he could find.

One particular paragraph was especially useful.

'_Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.'_

A smile curls the corners of his mouth as he reaches for his mug of tea. The groundskeeper had been quite upset when his roosters had been found dead.

He supposed it was clever, if not particularly subtle.

He had not had long to question Riddle before the diary was wrested from his ownership, but he had managed to pry what Riddle knew about the chamber and the 'monster within'.

Which, to Szayel's delight, was a lot.

* * *

Szayel chuckles as he reads the morning paper, idly wondering at the folly of terrified humans. The sound sends several first year students flinching.

Dumbledore and Hagrid are gone.

Michael shakes his head next to him as he reads over his shoulder.

"Daft isn't it? Honestly, who do they think could protect us more thoroughly than the Chief Warlock himself?" the tan boy tuts, before absently returning to his eggs, apparently unconcerned.

Szayel studies him, a slow smile spreading over his lips and a faint knowing glimmer beneath hooded eyelids.

"Who indeed?"

* * *

He passes Ginny Weasley in a hallway.

She tries not to look at him.

He resists the temptation to grin at her.

He doesn't want her to bolt just yet.

* * *

Something has been bothering him.

"Say, is there any way for a wizard to converse with animals?" he asks idly, while flicking through a book.

They are in the library, as is their custom on a weekend.

Michael looks up from the Astronomy essay he has been working on.

"Pardon?" he says as he blinks, falling out of the 'zone' he has been in.

Szayel smiles indulgently.

"I asked if there is any way for magical folk to communicate with animals."

He watches as his friend frowns before tapping the back of his hand with his quill as he thinks.

"I guess so. I mean, there's always spells to let you understand animals, tamers use them a lot." He starts, but Szayel cuts him off.

"I mean _skills_, not spells or potions."

"Oh." The pureblood looks slightly puzzled. "There's animagus transformations I suppose, but that's not really talking with an animal, just becoming one. Parseltongue too, but there hasn't been a recorded Parseltongue since Pericles the Punishers time." He trailed off, seemingly slightly embarrassed at not having more information to give.

Szayel adjusts his glasses with a forefinger, a lethargic smile forming on his lips. It is at odds with the fevered light in his eyes he barely tries to hide.

"Tell me more."

The heir to the Corner fortune raises an eyebrow, but expands.

"Animagi are wizards and witches who can turn into an animal at will. It's high level Transfiguration and we don't learn it at Hogwarts. All Animagi have to be registered with the Ministry by law. It allows you to take the form of an animal that is close to your 'spiritual self' as it were."

Spiritual self? Interesting. He would have to look into that.

"I don't know much more. Not everyone has the potential to be an Animage, they're usually good at Transfiguration. I know McGonagall is one though. Tabby cat. That's what she showed us in first year, on the first day, remember?"

Szayel makes a mental note to watch the Transfiguration mistress more closely as he nods absently to the other boys question.

"And 'Parseltongue'?" he asks, trying not to seem overly interested.

Michael wrinkles his nose.

"I didn't know much about that one. It's a bit…" he pauses and looks as though he is searching for the right word. "- taboo."

Before Szayel can ask for an elaboration, he is cut off. He closes his mouth again dutifully.

"Not an_ actual_ Taboo mind you, that would be weird. Nah, just a figurative one. Yeah. Anyway, Parseltongue! People think it's a 'Dark Art' because well, it's only ever manifested itself in people who turned out to be Dark wizards." He rambles on, picking up steam. "I guess it kind of makes sense, one of the only features that links a load of Dark wizards together is a special skill they _all_ just happened to have? I'd be leery of it too, to be honest. That's not to say _every_ dark wizard can speak Parseltongue! Just, you know, a few."

Szayel crosses one leg over the other and gives his friend a _look_ over the rims of his glasses.

"That's all very fascinating Michael, but I was wondering that if you could tell me exactly what it _is, _that would be lovely."

Szayel sees his friend flush and fidget slightly as he realises he has been rambling. He does not mind. He has the same habit after all, he just tends to do it when he is alone.

"It's um, just the ability to talk in the magical snake language."

This time, the former Espada cannot help but raise an immaculate eyebrow.

"'Magical snake language'?"

The other boy flushes a deeper red.

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

A thin, amused smirk slithers across Szayel's lips and he almost chuckles.

"Indeed."

* * *

"_Serpensortia!"_ He casts in the privacy of his dorm room.

A pause.

Furious hissing.

Szayel frowns theatrically, although a wide grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tuts.

"_Well, now that's just rude."_

* * *

Ron Weasley is worried about his sister. At the beginning, he hadn't been. In fact, he hadn't even paid much attention to her. She was his little sister, and –for once- he was the older, cooler one. Besides, he didn't want to hang around with her, he had his own friends and he was sure she would make her own, just like he did.

But now. Now, he wishes more than anything that he could do something for her. It's that horrible, nauseous feeling of powerlessness that he despises.

She is tired. Her feet drag upon the stone floors and she doesn't meet anyone's eyes. Her hair is limp and her hands shake. She is dangerously thin and pale. She flinches when she is addressed.

He is her brother. It's his duty to do something. _Anything._

"Ginny?" He ventures tentatively, when he sees her in the library, alone (always alone).

Her heads whips up and he's half afraid her thin neck will snap. Her eyes are wild and she searches his face as though she doesn't even recognise him.

"_Ron._" She breathes finally.

He gives her small, soft smile and settles himself down next to her, pretending to ignore the way she moves to keep space in between them.

They are quiet for a moment before Ron breaks the silence.

"Ginny…" he starts, not entirely sure how to proceed. He is not used to dealing with things like this. "Are you alright?"

He mentally kicks himself. Of course she is not alright. If she was alright, then he would not be here!

He feels the nasty twist of guilt in his gut at that.

She blinks at him.

"Yes."

That was it? That was all she had to say? Where was the rambunctious little girl with the hair that streamed behind her when she ran and who never shut up?

"You- you don't look it."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But she smiles at him. That should be comforting. It's not.

"I'm just homesick Ron, that's all."

He knows she's lying. He was always the one who could tell. Even Percy got caught on occasion. But never Ron.

"You know that's not true." He says softly, moving a little closer.

Her lip trembles and her eyes water.

He doesn't know what to do. His mum is the one to deal with this kind of thing, not him. Still, he does what he thinks his mother would in this situation, and wraps his little sister in a hug. She flinches, but clings to him anyway. She's crying and he can feel her tears seeping into his robes.

He's late for Herbology but he doesn't move. Then, he's missed it all together.

Her words come tumbling out like a waterfall. Some of it he doesn't understand, and some of it he does.

What he hears makes his blood run cold.

* * *

Tom will move soon. He knows it. He can _taste_ the intent on the air.

Green eyes shine dark, lambent gold in the light of the dying sun.

He can't _wait._

* * *

Ronald Weasley retches once more into the toilet that adjoins his dormitory. His stomach has long since emptied itself of its contents, but his body is still rebelling against him.

He was too late. He was reluctant to get his little sister into trouble – she didn't need that, not along with everything else- and in the process, got her taken.

He hesitates to use the word he known will make him start crying again.

She's gone. And while the act is not his fault, and he knows it, he could have stepped in.

It had only been a few days, he tries to rationalise, how could he have known? But guilt swamps the thought before it can take hold.

He could have done his brotherly duty and told someone, _anyone_. But he didn't.

And now it was very likely that he was once again the youngest living member of the Weasley family.

* * *

He grins when he feels the faint presence of a particular reiatsu slyly detach itself from the whole, and disappear.

Defence against that Dark Arts would no doubt be cancelled for the rest of the year.

Michael will be pleased.

* * *

Ron Weasley is crying.

He is wandering the halls alone, something he should not be doing, and wallowing in his own feelings, which is something that is to be expected.

What would his mother and father think? They would hate him. They would cast him out. His brothers would never speak to him again.

"Weasley!"

He jumps at the sharp call. He spins around, eye wide. Professor Sprout is regarding him with a frown. "You should be in your common room."

His brain lags for a moment, before whirring into action. There is a small amount of pity in her voice and a soft look in her eyes, despite her tone. It reminds him of his mother. He eyes threaten to water.

"I'm-!" He falters, then responds without realising. "I'm visiting Gr- Hermione!" He all but shouts.

Sprout softens.

"I understand wanting to visit your friend, especially after…" she trails off and looks dejected. She gives herself a little shake. "Be that s it may, you should not be on your own." She reprimands, stern but soft.

He flushes and looks down.

"I didn't want to bother anyone." He mumbles and wonders when he became such a good liar.

She sighs but nods.

"Very well. I will escort you there. Madame Pomfrey will bring you back before curfew."

He nods, numb, and follows in her wake like a lost puppy.

* * *

It takes him an age, but the paper is free. He looks at it. He does not understand. It's important though, he can tell that much.

He looks at a face seemingly carved from stone.

"Thank you."

He says the words that he would never have uttered had she been awake. Ron tucks the paper away.

It's something.

It's been hours. He has not slept. His brain hurts. But he drives on. Alone. She would, he thinks. Not that he wants to be anything like _her, _he defends.

Some small part of him tells him that that plain, snobbish girl who he said such nasty things about did more than he could ever hope to.

* * *

He has it. He _knows._

* * *

Szayel finds out about little Ginny Weasley before the announcement scheduled for the next day.

"W-will you help me?"

Ron Weasley is stuttering, pale and shaking. He is wringing his hands together and shifting his weight. His tired, black ringed eyes are on the floor, every so often flickering upwards to meet Szayels own before averting again.

Szayel smiles thinly and without humour.

"If I am to understand, and please _do_ correct me if I am not," He says, only himself hearing the sarcasm. "Your sister has been taken into the Chamber? You wish for my help in retrieving her?"

Furious nods.

"I see." He carefully slips a bookmark into the book he has open on his lap and closes the tome with precision. He looks up and meets the other boys frantic, widened eyes.

"Why me? Would it not be sensible to go and ask one of the professors for assistance?"

He is honestly curious. Weasley and himself have barely interacted over the years, and he wonders why the red head is here, begging him for help.

The redhead in question shuffles awkwardly.

"You're the best student in the castle, everyone knows that." He says eventually, muttering. "Besides, I-" He pauses and breathes deeply. "I can't tell the teachers. They'll want to know how I know. And I can't let Ginny get into trouble, not after all this! You know how bad it got, she told me! She told me everything!" He says passionately. "I _won't._" Here, he falters, but determination shines through. "If you won't help me- I- I'll go down there myself!"

Szayel raises one eyebrow.

"You speak as though you know where it is." He remarks knowingly, and is rewarded with a flush.

"I-I don't!" Ron defends, but lowers his voice. He sighs. "I was in the hallway by myself, and Sprout caught me. You know how we're not supposed to go anywhere without an escort? Y-yeah, well, I told her I was visiting the hospital wing to check on Granger. She's some girl in Gryffindor, I don't like her much." He wrinkles his nose, but looks morose. "She didn't deserve _that_ though. Anyway, I had to go to the hospital wing or she would have me in detention, so I was in there pretending and I saw something in Grangers hand." He takes another breath, and meets Szayels eyes with fire. "There was a note. She'd figured it out, all by herself. I don't know how, or why." He murmurs in grudging hint of admiration for the girl he does not like. "It was hard, but I pieced it all together." His blue eyes burn with pride and desperation. "I _know._"

Szayel regards him calmly. Inside though, he is raging.

This fool and some _child_ in another house have almost ruined everything. There is some measure of amusement there too, and a sense of irony. He ignores them.

We should kill him.

We should take him away.

We should _use _him.

He blinks, and slides his glasses up his nose with a finger.

"Luckily for you, you and –Granger?- are not the only ones to have being doing their own research." He says, his eyes sharp and amused, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "I think I know where the entrance is."

Ron looks at him, wide eyed. He does not ask how Szayel knows, which saves him the lie. He cannot, after all, simply admit that he asked Tom directly.

He swallows and his expression is one that Szayel knows well from his days as the Octava. It was that dawning realization that making a deal with the devil may not have been such a good idea, and that you are in _utterly_ over your head. The redhead perseveres.

"So, will you help?" he asks desperately.

Szayel is very quiet for a moment, his mind whirring. He does not _need _the other boy. He knows less than Szayel himself. But. Oh, but he could still serve a purpose. An alibi. A _reason._ A cementation of his legend. Perfect.

A small piece falls into place, revealing a hitherto unfinished masterpiece.

He smiles.

"Yes."

* * *

He walks forward, wand held aloft and glowing with a soft light. The ethereal wandlight illuminates dank stone and countless small bones that are crunched underfoot.

The redhead is following cautiously behind him and reflects on his companion for a moment.

The redhead is a surprising enigma. Szayel had dismissed him as unimportant at the beginning, but it seemed- loathe as he was to admit it- that he had been wrong.

Ron Weasley is more than they all realise. Szayel can see it. That burn. Intelligence, hidden.

The other boy is not an academic like himself, and does not touch him in terms of raw brain power.

But, oh- that mind! He almost shudders with delight. That mind is a masterpiece. Tactical, with well-oiled wheels. He can see it. The way he had pieced together the puzzle. He was used to being taken care of, being _coddled_ but when it counted, he rose to the occasion splendidly!

Without him, Ron Weasley would once again fade away into nothing. He would continue to be overlooked, his potential wasted as he was cast aside as the stupid one, the one who was not quite good enough. He would slip into his role too well, and never believe himself to be capable of anything more that utter averageness. He would be bitter. He would wade in the mire of mediocrity, never pushed, never forced.

But Szayel will make him great.

Well, great _enough_.

* * *

Ron feels his breath come in short, painful twists of white as they venture deeper and deeper into the chamber. He has no idea what to expect. Not really.

He does not have much of a plan. He had done what he always did, he'd charged in ahead without thinking. But it is alright, because he has _Harry Potter_ on his side. The other boy gives him the creeps, but Ron supposes that is just how he is. The Parseltongue is frightening, he is not ashamed to admit. But Harry is a good guy, he knows that now. Just unlucky, it seems.

He winces as his foot comes down on what he thought was the slimy stone floor, but instead descends upon one of the many small skeletons that littered the gloom just out of reach of the soft wandlight. He swallows and carries on, determined.

If there is anything he has to be proud of, it is tenacity.

His mother said so.

He will never admit it, but he wishes that she is here with him right now.

He has loyalty too, she had said. Trust.

It is because of this trust and admirable loyalty that he turns around obediently when the other boy shouts, and does not even notice the rock hitting the back of his head until it is too late. By the time the impact has registered, he is already unconscious.

* * *

Szayel looks down in satisfaction at the fallen boy. There is a large gash in his scalp, but the former Octava can tell at a glance that it is not fatal. A stunning spell would have been more efficient, he supposes, but he does not know it. No. He knows the incantation, but cannot get it to work.

Maddening.

Still, he reasons, idly dropping his wand to his side and turning from the body, maybe wizards had ways to detect such spells? He had no idea. A Banished rock did the job well enough for his purposes.

He walks a few paces before stopping and lazily raising his wand again. With a cruel smile stretching his mouth, he raises the wand.

"_Bombarda_." He intones, and a section of ceiling is blown apart by the small explosion. Dust and small chips rain down from above. "_Bombarda."_ He says again, not changing his aim. This time, a large section of stone falls lose, and takes several smaller chunks with it. They crash to the stone floor near the body of the red head. Szayel looks on dispassionately at the small collapse he has caused. Once the dust clears, he can see that while the other boy has been spared his life, one arm is invisible under the rubble.

Szayel turns, does not give him another glance, and begins his walk to the main chamber anew.

There is a small, pleased smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he steps lazily into the last, most grandiose chamber. He twirls his wand between dextrous fingers as he walks forward, his eye fixed on the small, limp figure lying on the wet floor.

He takes his time getting to her, and when he does, looks down with mild interest.

He nudges her with a foot.

He crouches and presses two long fingers to her pallid neck, looking for a pulse.

His eyes narrow and he feels his smile stretch as he senses a flicker behind him.

"Tom." He greets genially, "Fancy meeting you here."

He stands and brushes his hand against his robes with a slight shiver of disgust at the condition before facing the apparition who is regarding him with a wary, hungry expression. There is a wand in his hand, light, battered wood and oddly out of place in Tom's pale, incorporeal hand.

The ghost, soul, plus, -whatever he is- is silent for a few moments.

"You." He says eventually and with little emotion, his eyes assessing.

Szayel gives him his best saccharine smile, and his blank eyes betray nothing.

"Me." He agrees, inclining his head slightly in greeting.

Whatever it is that Tom Riddle is now, watches.

"You are not Harry Potter." He says at last, with finality.

Szayel chuckles as one would do at a moderately funny joke. The flickering torches reflect off the water and throw large, grotesque shadows onto the walls. Its sickly, yellow light catches in the lenses of his glasses, making them flare.

"So you remember then." He notes. "Interesting. Most interesting…" he trails off, his eyes less focused, as though he is somewhere else.

He snaps back into reality and those carefully blank eyes are aware again.

"My apologies," He murmurs, "I was in another place."

Tom Riddle does not respond, and the apparition seems to take his words as a subtle jibe.

"What are you?" It asks, coking its head to one side.

Szayel copies the movement almost exactly.

"Why, I'm just a young school boy." He says, his eyes crinkling and voice taking on a sickly sweet tone. "Who, incidentally, is very interested in just what you are doing here."

Tom Riddle grins suddenly.

"You're like me, aren't you?" he asks, then continues without waiting for a response. "A spirit possessing a human shell. Tell me, how did you do it?"

His eyes gleam and Szayel fancies he can see a flicker of red in those irises.

He inspects his perfectly manicured fingernails. The sound of steadily dripping water provides a staccato beat to their script.

"I would rather not tell you, to be honest." He looks up from his study of his nails and his eyes glitter. "After all, why waste words on a cretin like you?"

Tom should have been angry. He should have been livid.

But instead he laughed.

"Bravo Empty Eyes! Oh, bravo indeed!" He chuckled, clapping his ghostly hands. "You caught me." He fell quiet and a crooked, cruel grin cracked his face. "You really did catch me. Hook, line and sinker, one might say."

Szayel said nothing, content to let the other keep talking.

And talk he does.

"Ingenious, using Veritaserum. I certainly never imagined my diary would even be vulnerable against such methods, let alone that I would need to plan against them." He explains, curiosity and a definite scarlet tinge visible in his irises. "You foiled me. Me! I could scarcely comprehend it. But now I see. You are more. More than I thought possible. Maybe even…" He trails off, looking hungry. "Why are you here, then? I do not imagine it is to complete some hero's quest to save a missing girl."

The younger boy casts an indifferent glance at the girl on the floor.

He grins.

"I have a plan, you see. And I needed to be here to complete it." He speaks with the teasing tone of someone bantering with an old friend, easy and humoured.

Tom's lips twitch.

"I suspected as much." He makes to carry on their little charade, but Szayel interrupts before he can do so.

"The plan, however, means ending you and as much as it pains me, I do so hate to deviate from it." He says with a voice like poisoned honey, and a smile like the edge of a knife.

Tom smiles thinly.

"I cannot say I am pleased to hear that." He comments, shifting his weight subtly. "You should know though, that you cannot harm me as I am. Soon though, that girl will be mine. And when she is, you shall feel the true power of Lord Voldemort."

His eyes shine with madness and lust for blood, and his fingers flex like claws.

Szayel raises an eyebrow.

"Voldemort? _You_ are Voldemort?"

Tom cackles and the sound ricochets off the stone walls and makes it sound like there is an army laughing along with him.

"Voldemort is my past, present, and future!" he crows, and raises the stolen wand in his hand. He draws his name in flaming letters in the air, intent on showing his adversary just who he is dealing with.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

Not taking his eyes off the former Octava, he flicked the wand and the fiery letters rearrange themselves.

_I am Lord Voldemort_

Szayel raises the other eyebrow.

"An annagram." He comments dryly. "Origional."

Tom barely casts him an irritated glance as he spreads his arms wide. His hair falls in his eyes and shadows his face.

"You should be honoured, Empty Eyes," he murmurs. "You will be the first one to feel my true power in over a decade." He cocks his head to one side, the action giving him the pose of a broken doll, his mouth stretched horribly wide. "Now, _speak to me Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four."_

Szayel tenses and backs up a few steps, the traces of humour gone from his face. The hissing, sibilant sound of Parseltongue sets his teeth on edge, and he revels in the feeling. It's like metal on bone, or a throat screamed raw.

There is a deep bass rumble of rock shifting against rock and Szayel snarls.

He closes his eyes tightly and breathes evenly, stretching out his senses. He had hoped to have been finished with his planned destruction of the ghost-plus-_whatever_, but he had been wrong. He had thought Tom was a mere spirit, a lingering afterthought of a soul. But he is not. He is more.

Tom says that he cannot be harmed as he is, and Szayel is in no hurry to get close enough to find out now that he knows he is armed.

How bothersome.

There is the rough, rasping sound of something heavy and massive sliding across the stone floor. His head twitches, and he clenches his fist around the handle of his wand.

Enraged hisses fill the air and it practically hums with the presence of something almost incomprehensibly old and powerful.

His tongue darts out of moisten dry lips and he rolls his shoulders.

He can hear Tom laughing, but cannot pinpoint the sound in the thousand echoes that bounce around the chamber.

Plan. He needs one of those. Fast.

Yes, plans are good. Good plans are even better.

He can hear Tom hissing to the giant snake, but pays it no heed. It will not be anything pleasant for him.

His mind is working through what he needs. He is sifting through knowledge, cherry picking what he needs and discarding what he does not with frightening ease and speed.

_Basilisk. King of Serpents. Thick hide, spell resistant. Kills with a glance. Born from a chickens egg hatched from under a toad. Unimportant. Venomous. Fast. Old. Artificial. Cry of a rooster is fatal to it. Rooster? No. All dead. No knowledge on how to summon one. Cannot do inanimate to anime transfiguration. Replicate noise? Unsure if effective. Eyes, weak point. Also weapon. _

In the few seconds it had taken to compile and sort the information he needed and remove the chaff, the massive snake has already begun to move. His thoughts slow and his body moves almost of its own accord. Its eyes and its mouth are its weak point and he certainly isn't going to get close enough to find out how strong those scales were.

Flinging himself to the side once more, he curses his lack of foresight. He had been so certain of himself. So sure of his superiority in his knowledge. Again.

First year.

He snarls, and it's a bestial, guttural sound that is lost in the cacophony of cackles and the deafening sound of splintering rock.

He comes out of the roll with his wand up and his eyes tightly shut. With a quick mental calculation that very few would have been able to replicate, he aims and fires off a spell. It misses by a mile and he hears it impact on the wall a long way away.

His lips thin and he makes to dodge again, the snakes massive head driving through ancient, crumbling rock like a drill through sponge.

Another spell. It hits the scales of the beast with an audible _ping_ and he is forced to do an awkward slide to avoid colossal fangs.

He opens his eyes for a split second while he is certain the beast is behind him, and suddenly, everything falls into place.

He runs.

The snake is far, _far_ quicker than him.

It's snout angles downwards, and as it hisses its indecipherable rage, it is upon him.

He pauses for a tiny, miniscule fraction of a second before throwing himself to the side with a pained gasp. He registers his glasses falling from his face. The Basilisk buries its giant head in the pillar he had been sprinting towards with a resounding _boom._

Bringing up a half ruined arm, his eyes screwed shut again and tasting blood on his tongue, he snarls out the spell like it's an insult.

"_Bombarda Maxima!" _

The overpowered blasting curse takes a lot out of him, since he's only just learned the fifth year variant and has yet to prefect it, but it does its job.

Massive, car sized chunks of rock fall from the ruined ceiling and the pillar collapses completely. The Basilisk's furious hisses ricochet and mix with the chest rumbling sound of hundreds of tons if shifting rock.

It seems like an age before the last of the stone become a trickle of dust, and the shrapnel ceases to impact on the walls and floor.

Szayel is panting, and his arm is in agony.

He can feel blood running down his chin, and a thousand and one tiny cuts make his skin sting as tiny shards of rock make themselves known to be imbedded in his flesh.

He coughs and tastes more blood.

He hears manic hissing and the sounds of a massive creature exerting itself, along with the uncompromising bass of moving rock.

There are screams of rage too, but he ignores those for the moment.

He opens his eyes, making sure they are angled firmly at the floor, and heaves himself up.

He is in quite bad condition, he notes. He should probably do something about that.

The floor shakes again as the Basilisk attempts to free itself.

He knows what he wants to do next. He just doesn't know how to do it.

In the end, he takes a leap of faith. He makes a hypothesis and he believes in it. Perhaps he is wrong. He supposes, idly, that it would be amusing that he be taken down by something as simple as making the wrong decision.

He looks up.

He releases the breath he has been unconsciously holding.

The Basilisk's head is buried underneath several tons of rock, its body is writhing in the stone floor, causing it to shake. It's still not dead though, far from it.

He grits his teeth and there is a little light in his eyes, despite the somewhat fuzzy vision he has from losing his glasses.

Forcing his body to work, he begins to climb over the rubble. His task is made all the more difficult by the debris moving with the writhes of the Basilisk beneath it.

Finally, he is on top of where its head is. He lifts his wand arm tiredly and, reciting one of the first spells he ever learned with a small tinge of fondness, levitates a particularly large piece of stone from the snakes head. As if sensing the lift of weight, it bucks and hisses with renewed vigour, and he's almost thrown from it.

With a disgusted twist of his lips, he brings his wand to point directly down and watches with no little satisfaction as the slab of stone, weighing at least five tonnes and the size of a small car, is directed downwards.

It smashes into the skull of the huge snake, sending gore exploding outwards in a violent plume.

Brain matter and bone coat everything in the vicinity, including him.

Instinctively raising an arm to protect his eyes from the onslaught of crushed flesh, he feels its heat settle onto his skin with no small amount of dormant pleasure.

The animal lets out a keening, hissing moan as it thrashes, its body taking a few seconds to realise that it is dead before to eventually falls still, still half buried under the rubble.

He takes deep, shaking breaths as adrenaline courses through his body. His eyes are wide and his nostrils flare, taking in the overwhelming stench of gore and blood. Almost in a trance, he makes his way down the rocks, almost falling at the bottom. He braces himself against the side of the cooling snake, his knees threatening to give way.

He is covered in blood.

It mats his hair, sending dark tendrils into wet, matted rats tails. It's soaking into his clothing, making it sticky and unpleasant. The liquid coats every inch of exposed skin, glimmering like oil in the light of the remaining torches. He can feel it, running down the side of his face, moulding to the contours of his bone structure.

It is slick between his fingers, and the wood of his wand is wet and slippery in his hand.

The dazed look slowly dissipates from his eyes. His body sluggishly releases the hold on his muscles, and they cease to be tense. He leans back against the corpse of the King of Snakes like one would a wall in their own home, and laughs.

Covered in blood, the mutilated corpse of his adversary cooling, the sound of fluids leaking onto stone flagstones mixes with his laughter, bouncing around what is left of the chamber.

He laughs until he feels tired and it peters out, leaving him with a tight feeling in his throat.

A loud, slow, resounding clap pieces the sudden quiet.

Szayel opens his eyes and observes the source.

Tom Riddle is clapping rhythmically, his now scarlet eyes fixed on the gore soaked profile of the boy on the other side of the chamber and a cold, steely expression on his face.

"Well done." He calls, his voice steel and poison, and his eyes do not move.

Szayel cocks his head to one side.

Tom Riddle smiles. It is utterly without humour, ice cold with only feeling in it, a sense of resigned, ruthless accomplishment.

He draws something from his sleeve. He points Ginny Weasleys wand unwaveringly at him.

Szayel watches, as though detached from the scene and a mere spectator.

Tom cocks his head to one side and adjusts his aim a little. The smile grows wider by a fraction of an inch.

Szayel barely has time to register the spell before it hits him, and he is a prisoner in his own body.

* * *

Tom Riddle takes tentative steps across the water laden, cracked flagstones of his ancestors masterpiece.

The Weasley's wand is in his hand, long fingers grasping the pitted wood with easy pleasure.

He stops just short of the figure on the floor, blood pluming like ink in the water surrounding him.

It is a fascinating creature, whatever it is. Clearly it is no mere child genius, but something a little more.

He licks his lips, unconsciously savouring the action as his body becomes more solid with every passing second.

Crimson eyes study the body of his enemy and gleam with interest in the low light of the remaining torches.

He takes in the stick thin build, the long hands and wet, matted hair that covers the face.

Definitely not human. No human could have such ability. None besides himself, of course.

A small grin crosses thin lips, and red irises glimmer with anticipation. He would take this creature, whatever it was, and he would study it. He will rip out its secrets and take them for himself.

But first…

A security measure. He would have preferred the creature to be alive in order to capture the true potential of it, but needs must. Too dangerous. Far too dangerous.

He steps forward languidly, and twirls the wand in his fingers. It is a poor match, but better now for the connection that now flow between them.

He pauses when he reaches the fallen body of his adversary. Pity. He didn't even get to know its real name. If it even had one.

He crouches and reaches out a hand to idly brush sodden hair out of the pale face. Green eyes are open and staring at him, the only thing allowed movement by dint of his spell.

He smiles humourlessly as he drank in the face.

He could see it now. He has seen pictures of Lily and James Potter though the Weasley's eyes, and the facial features here only partially match up. He looks closer.

There.

A tiny, almost unnoticeable fleck of yellow in one green iris.

Yellow?

Odd. Still, it cemented his theory on it being inhuman.

He grins, and one would almost expect fangs to sprout from his gums. He runs his knuckles over the porcelain skin of the others cheek with affection that is not mirrored in his sharp, hungry smile.

"Well played, Empty Eyes." He murmurs, and trails the stolen wand along its skin, coming to rest at its temple.

He half expects some plume of impossible, otherworldly power, but there is nothing. He almost hopes it will not be so easy, but he is disappointed.

As always.

He sighs, and presses the wood of his procured foci hard into the surface there.

He studies the others face again for a moment, drinking in the living flesh. It is a pity something so beautiful and twisted would have to be snuffed out, he thinks idly, driving the wood in deeper.

Tom gives a friendly smile.

"Pity." He comments, before hardening his gaze, the grin still twisting thin, pale lips.

He sees that he likes to think is panic in those inhuman eyes.

He summons his hatred.

"_Avada Kedavra."_

Death comes on quiet wings and a lambent flash of green.

* * *

_Okay. So I was going to have a two parter, but I wrote too much again. I'm sure you don't mind._

_Anyway. Yeah. So, things are happening. And I'm cruel for leaving you like this, I know. ... Brilliant, isn't it?_

_On the flip side, I now have unofficially finished my second year at university and have no more work to do, and so can focus on fanfic for a while._

_Did you enjoy this chapter?_

_Was there anything you believe should have been changed, or made more clear?_

_If so, please do tell me, as otherwise I'll never end up changing it and improving my writing for you all. :)_


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